


Now We've Stepped into a Cruel World

by missmichellebelle



Series: Tropetember [15]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, Apocalypse, M/M, Survival
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-26
Updated: 2014-09-26
Packaged: 2018-02-18 20:24:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2361155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missmichellebelle/pseuds/missmichellebelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The apocalypse isn’t so much an end to the world as it is a war to survive, to endure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Now We've Stepped into a Cruel World

**Author's Note:**

> **Tropetember** is a month long event where the goal is to write a fic fulfilling a different trope/AU ~~every day (except for one random day a week where I don't feel like it apparently)~~ as many days as I can before the end of September. If there is a specific trope/AU you would like to see, please [drop me an ask on tumblr](http://missmichellebelle.tumblr.com/ask).
> 
> Zombies scare the shit out of me, and like, everyone does a zombie apocalypse. Let's do something more depressing, if still as highly unlikely.
> 
> Also, I have like... Maybe 3-5 more AUs left in me. I'm going to aim for 5, because 20 is a nicer number than 18, but Tropetember will probably end there. Falling six short, but man, this coming-up-with-plots-for-different-AUs shit is _hard_. Plus, I want to start writing sequels to things. XD

When the apocalypse comes, it comes slowly, in stages. There isn’t some viral outbreak that turns people into zombies, and there aren’t sudden ridiculous and dangerous weather patterns that end the world in the blink of an eye. No, the economy crashes. That’s the first thing that happens. Then crops start failing—just a few farms at first, and then more, every year, until it’s all of them. There is a disease, but it gets into the water—poisons the land, and animals, and people. It doesn’t turn them into anything dangerous. It just kills them.

Money is worthless, food is scarce, and civilization collapses. The apocalypse isn’t so much an end to the world as it is a war to survive, to endure.

And while every bad thing under the sun seems to be happening (when the land turns barren and dry, that’s when the freak weather starts), every human’s greatest enemy isn’t the earth itself—it’s each other.

Which is how Ian ends up in a Mexican standoff, staring down the barrel of a shot gun, arms steady as he keeps his finger on the trigger of his own handgun.

It’s not the best situation (obviously), but it’s the best one he could ask for. He’s out scouting—has been for a few days now, the flame of hope inside of him resilient that maybe after the next mile, he’ll find something worthwhile. They always scout before they move; it’s safer, and it’s easier for one of them to sneak across the wide expanse of barren wasteland than it is for all of them to. The last thing they need is to amble in a direction and run out of supplies before they find another relatively safe space. Three of them generally head off in different directions, any way that isn’t the way they just came from, while the other three hold down their current fort.

Someone has to stay with Liam. Someone has to protect him while the other raids for food and water, and the others try to find a new place to call “home.”

They never stay in the same hideout for more than a month, and Ian thinks even that is too long. They aren’t the only herd of vagabonds wandering around, searching for… Well, Ian’s not sure what. Soil that’s still fertile? Water that’s not poisoned? Somewhere that will always be safe? It’s basically a pipe dream.

Ian doesn’t want to die, but the way he sees it, at least his family will be safe. If he takes a shot gun to the head, they’ll have one less mouth to feed, and they’ll be safe. Their location, their existence, will stay unknown to his assailant.

He thinks he could probably get off a pretty decent shot from the angle he’s aiming the gun—enough to wound, and maybe kill since there aren’t exactly ways to treat a gunshot these days. Except that Ian has about four bullets, and he’d rather not waste them if he doesn’t have to.

Minutes pass by in tense silence, and Ian starts to get frustrated. He doesn’t have time for this shit.

“We don’t seem to be getting anywhere,” he replies, voice calm and easy. Ian’s always been good at rounding out the edges of a tone that would otherwise come out sharp and biting.

Taking on a hostile attitude probably isn’t going to help in the _not getting shot_ department.

Although talking just has the end of the gun pressed more forcibly against his cheek. Ian is really wondering why he hasn’t been shot yet. This guy obviously has the upper hand, and it’s not like they live in a world where you talk to someone before shooting them.

You always shoot first. Because if you don’t, _they_ will.

“Look, I don’t want any trouble,” Ian continues, his voice quiet and even. Not that his words mean anything. Not like some stranger is going to trust him. “I’m just trying to find a place with food.” He is, it just isn’t the whole truth. “If I’m encroaching on your territory, I’ll turn around and walk away. No harm, no foul.”

And then he’ll walk about a mile east before turning north again. No way this guy can cover that much land and keep other people off it.

The guy actually snorts, glaring down at him.

“Yeah, sure. Because I was born fucking yesterday.”

The metal is cool and hard against Ian’s skin.

“So what are you going to do?” Ian asks, trying his best to look at the stranger even with his face forced sideways. “Shoot me? If you were going to do that, you would have done it by now.”

Unless he doesn’t want to.

Or he can’t.

Ian keeps one of his old ROTC blades sheathed and stuffed in the back of his jeans (it’s funny, how much all of that equipment and training has helped them through the apparent end of the world). He’s pretty sure he has the upper hand here, but if he makes a move without thinking it through, he’s going to get pistol whipped (shot gun whipped?) and that’s still going to fucking hurt like a bitch. It could even be enough to potentially knock him out, and if this guy doesn’t plan on killing him now, he’ll _definitely_ do it once Ian tries to attack him.

Would it be irony to get shot with his own fucking gun? Ian never really did get irony.

So Ian waits, because all he needs is an opening. If he ever gets one. This guy is good—is alert, and defensive, and doesn’t take his eyes off Ian for even a second.

Until he does. It’s just luck, a sound off in the distance that makes his attacker glance sideways, and then Ian is moving, drawing his knife and tackling the other man to the ground. He’s smaller, but he’s stocky, and they struggle in the dirt as Ian tries to pin him down.

Eventually he has his blade pressed to the other’s neck, and he stills, breath heaving, staring up at Ian.

“I don’t want trouble,” Ian repeats, his voice more steely than it had been before. “Let me walk away, and I’ll let you live.”

“If you don’t get the fuck off me, we’re both going to die either way,” the guy hisses between clenched teeth, and Ian stares down at him in confusion. It lowers his guard just enough that he’s suddenly being pushed onto his back, nearly drops his knife, sure that it’s going to be torn from his hand when he’s suddenly dragged under a pile of fallen trees.

“What the fuck—“ he starts, but then there’s a foreign hand pressed over his mouth. The hole is so small that they’re pressed together, no room for personal space. It wasn’t made for humans to hide in. It’s just a freak accident, trees collapsing and colliding in just the right way. Sort of. Ian doesn’t like being this fucking close to someone who was trying to kill him.

He spends a few seconds struggling before he hears noise—footsteps, the sound of kicked aside branches and leaves. Ian goes still, heart hammering in his chest. It’s one thing to run into a single wanderer like he had, but this is a group heading towards them. There’s safety in numbers, but there’s also threat.

And Ian knows exactly what his family would do if they came across a solo who was armed and stocked with supplies.

There’s no talking, just the careful sound of footsteps. Talking draws attention, and even if you’re traveling with a pack, there might be a bigger, more prepared one out there and looking for exactly what you have. So all Ian can listen to is their footsteps, as they come closer and closer and closer until they’re filing past their hiding space. As far as hiding places go, it’s a good one, and they’re lucky it was so close.

Most of the land lacks any sort of hiding place. To walk around in the open is to be utterly defenseless to what you can’t see and prepare for.

Ian hadn’t been paying attention. He hates himself for it, because a minute or two longer, and he wouldn’t even be able to feel this remorse. But he _should_ have been paying attention, even while trying to contain the current threat to his life.

They both lie still as the footsteps fade away, and long after, just in case. And then the hand still placed firmly over his mouth disappears, and the body on top of him with it.

Ian crawls cautiously out of the hole, still gripping his knife, and holds it up defensively. He’s surprised to see that the guy has his back turned, and is cursing quietly to himself.

“Fucking took my shot gun,” he mutters, and Ian glances around; his heart drops as he notices that his own gun is missing from the weeds, too. _Fuck_. He hadn’t even heard any of them stop or pick around in the grass, too busy focusing on footfalls and the loud thrum of his own heart.

“My pistol, too,” he commiserates, setting his jaw. Having a knife is something, but how the fuck is he supposed to get back safely without a _gun_? He’ll be a sitting duck. “At least mine had bullets in it.”

The other turns on him, an angry set to his eyes.

“The fuck did you just say?”

“You didn’t have any shells, right?” Ian guesses, raising his eyebrows. “It was just a makeshift bat. Good for intimidation, though.” Ian glances at him, waiting for the contradiction, but just gets more mumbled curses and the guy scrubbing his hand through his hair. Ian watches him for a few seconds, and then crouches down, digging into his boot.

He has a pocket knife. It’s more for back-up than any actual practicality. It’s not the best weapon, unless he can get the sneak on someone, and it isn’t nearly as scary as his other knife. But he has it, just in case. Ian flicks it open and closed again, and then takes a few steps forward—the sound of his boots makes the other boy turn around, and he stares down at Ian’s suddenly outstretched hand and the knife sitting in it.

“Here,” Ian prompts, as if his open palm wasn’t enough indication of what he was doing. “You won’t get wherever the fuck you’re going without something. I don’t need it.”

A lie. Everyone needs everything they can get their hands on.

“I don’t need your fucking pity, all right? I’ve survived all this time on my own just fine,” the guy scoffs in return, and it makes Ian’s stomach feel hollow.

The apocalypse is fucking bad enough, and Ian doesn’t know how far he would have made it if it wasn’t for his siblings. Not just because they all protect each other, and take shifts sleeping, and finding food. There’s no hope in this fucking world anymore, but as long as Ian has his family, he’s got _something_ to live for. Even his own survival instinct wouldn’t have lasted as long against this shitshow of a life.

“As far as I see it, you saved my life, so fucking take it.” Ian doesn’t so much throw it at _him_ as he throws it at his feet, to show him that he isn’t going to take it with him, so the guy might as well just accept it. “I was oblivious as shit. You could have left me out here and watched as they stripped me of everything I had and killed me with my own gun, and you didn’t.”

The other is quiet for a long time, looking down and rubbing at the corner of his mouth.

“No one fucking deserves to go like that,” he says, and his tone is deep, and wounded. Like maybe he has watched it happen before.

Ian’s insides twist up. He’s one of the lucky ones. Everyone he loves is still alive by some miracle.

“Are you really all on your own?” Ian asks, eyebrows scrunched together. He gets a glare and the bird in return. “Did you—“

“Look, dipshit. I don’t have time for this. We’re not the only ones out here, and who knows if we’ll be lucky enough to save our asses again.” He picks up Ian’s knife, and then gives Ian a salute with it. “So good luck with not fucking dying, and I hope I never see your stupid red-ass hair ever again. Enjoy the motherfucking apocalypse.” And then he turns, and walks back the way he came.

The way Ian is supposed to be going. Even though he’s now down a gun, and a knife, and he should turn back. Better he turn back than die. His family would appreciate it.

Ian chews his lip, and then does the stupidest thing he’s done since he suggested they try to live in one of those free people colonies.

He runs after the guy.

“Hey—hey, wait!”

The guy stops cold in his tracks, and the next thing Ian knows, he’s being pushed up against a tree, hand once again over his mouth.

“Jesus fucking _christ_ , it’s like you want to get your fucking head blown off.” His blue eyes shift around uneasily, and this time, Ian strains his ears, too—but there’s silence. “I thought you didn’t want any fucking trouble?”

Ian can’t see where this guy stashed the knife he gave him, but he’s sure it’s nowhere far. He reaches up, and pulls the hand away from his mouth.

“I don’t, I just—look. We’re both kind of fucked. I don’t have a working gun, you don’t have an intimidating gun. We have some knives, and that’s it. On our own we’ll both fucking die.” Ian doesn’t know where the words are coming from, but they just keep coming. “So I figured—“

“The fuck do you think this is? Some kind of slumber party bullshit? Fucking boy scouts?” Ian is shoved back into the tree hard, and grunts from the impact. “Stay the fuck away from me, or I will cut your throat out with your own fucking knife.” He steps away from Ian, gives him one last deadly glare, and then starts to walk away again.

Ian just watches him for a few moments. He moves so carefully that he hardly makes any noise, like he isn’t even there at all. The way he moves takes him from cover to cover, keeping him out of the eye of anyone that could be around. It’s impressive. Ian can’t move quite so stealthily, but he’s still pretty good at being unnoticed if he wants to be.

He follows after him.

It takes about three minutes for him to notice.

“I’m not kidding, I will fucking kill you.”

“I think you’re forgetting who has the bigger knife,” Ian reminds him. “I’m Ian, by the way.”

“Didn’t fucking ask, did I?”

“No. I was just being polite.”

The guy snorts, and yeah, Ian can see the ridiculousness of the statement. Politeness has no place at the end of the world. They walk in silence, and Ian’s prey tries to dodge and weave and lose him quite a few times, only to grunt in frustration every time he’s unsuccessful.

They walk and walk and walk until the sun starts to sink, and that’s when he finally stops.

“You’re still fucking here?” He turns on Ian with a snarl, and Ian just gives him a tight smile.

“I’m watching your back.”

“Don’t fucking need it.”

Ian just holds up his hands in surrender, and then turns away. It’s another stupid move, but he doesn’t think this guy is really going to cut his throat out.

He starts to push and props logs together, forming a shelter for the night. Night would sound like the ideal time to slip across the landscape—it’s dark, and easy to go unseen. Except that it’s just as easy for everyone else to do the same. One second you’re alone, and the next you have a bullet through your skull.

It’s nice to have logs. There isn’t much woodland left anymore, and even if these trees are weak and ashy, they’ll still provide some cover. The air is turning crisp and biting, and there’s been a pile of clouds on the horizon all day. Ian wouldn’t be the least surprised if they get a storm that night.

At least a storm means water.

He lines the inside of his shelter with the tarp in his bag, and then drags a few more logs around to disguise the entrance. It won’t be the best night’s sleep, but at least he’ll be relatively safe. Especially since rain means that the chances of people walking by are slim to none—the chances of them seeing his hideout through a torrential downpour are basically nonexistent.

“You fucking are a boy scout, aren’t you?” His sort-of companion sneers, and Ian grins at him.

“Close. I did ROTC in high school.” The words taste thick and strange on his tongue, like they have no place in this world anymore.

Probably because they don’t.

“I’m happy to share,” Ian remarks, when he sees that the other man has taken no steps to build his own temporary shelter.

“I’d rather get fucking shot,” is the response he gets, and Ian just shrugs, throwing his things inside.

“Your funeral, but the offer stands.” And then he crawls in after his stuff and pulls the log barricade closer.

He has half a can of beans in his bag, and figures if he finishes it, he can use the empty can to catch rain water. It’ll be full of bean residue, but it’ll be water, and he won’t die from drinking it.

The storm rolls night on them earlier than usual, and not an hour after Ian has crawled into his shelter, it starts to pour immediately.

Ian wonders how it can rain so much, so heavily, and yet the ground and the plants stay dead. Then again, he wonders about a lot of the fucked up things that have happened in the last several years.

About five minutes later, he hears a muffled, “Yo, red,” and he pushes aside enough wood to make a reasonable opening for a person to fit through. No sooner has he done it than a wet body is hurdling under the protection of the tarp.

“I see you’ve gotten over wanting to die more than trust me,” Ian says, picking up his can of food and shaking the contents out into his mouth. Utensils are a luxury of the past.

“Who said I fucking trust you? I just don’t want to get fucking rained on,” is his spitting response, and Ian just grins a little bit before holding out the can and what remains of the food he rationed for that day.

There’s a full two minutes of the guy staring at the can and Ian feeling really stupid and awkward for offering it.

But when it’s clear Ian isn’t going to pull it away, he carefully takes the can and swallows the rest of the food in one swallow.

“Can,” Ian demands, holding his hand out, and when the aluminum touches his fingers, he sticks it outside. The sound of water against it is almost soothing, like the sort of sound Ian would have expected to hear a long time ago, when life was hard but nowhere near as hard as this.

He thinks he would give anything for that shitty little house in the shitty South Side of Chicago, with his shitty fuck of a dad and his shitty life. Because it was still a thousand times better than this. Ian reclines back as much as he can in the small space, tipping his head back and closing his eyes, listening to the sound and wishing for a life that he’ll never have again.

“Mickey.”

The sound breaks him out of the almost-sleep he had nearly entered, and Ian turns his head to the side. The guy is thumbing his lip again, staring at the aluminum can, and then his eyes shoot to Ian.

“That your name?” He asks, voice drowsy, and he thinks maybe he sees a hint of a smile, but it’s too dark to tell. Dark, and cold, and still wet even with the tarp, and literally any second they could die. And yet Ian is wondering if maybe he did see a smile.

“Wow, fucking genius over here,” is Mickey’s sarcastic reply, and Ian smiles in the dark, closing his eyes again.

“Fuck off,” he mumbles, and he thinks maybe he hears a dry chuckle.

“Oh, so now you don’t want anything to do with me? Threaten your life and you’re an annoying little shit, but insult your intelligence? If that could have gotten you off my ass, I would have done it hours ago.”

“Whatever. Then you’d be all wet and hungry.” The sound of the tin can, and of Mickey’s voice, is soothing. Having him there feels like a safety net, and Ian thinks maybe he will sleep, after all.

“Yeah, because I haven’t survived this long without having the boy scout of America up my ass.” There’s the sound of shifting on the tarp, and Ian wonders for a second if maybe he’ll fall asleep and never wake up again. Maybe Mickey (if that’s even his name) will kill him and steal everything on him, down to the socks on his feet.

But then he remembers how Mickey saved his life, and it’s hard to believe that he’d go back on that, even with all the threats.

“Go to sleep, red. I’ll take first watch.”

Ian takes that as the only acceptance to the agreement he never got the chance to propose. He has no idea where they’re going, or for how long, or what will happen when they get there. He doesn’t even know why he thought this was a good idea in the first place—sure, he’s always been easy to trust, but that was before the entire world turned on each other to fight for the sudden finite amount of supplies.

And yet he can’t deny that he feels safer falling asleep, knowing that Mickey is there to protect him from anything that goes bump in the night.

**Author's Note:**

> [Read, Reblog, & Like on Tumblr](http://missmichellebelle.tumblr.com)


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